


Not Innocent, But Holy

by theyshotmyclown



Category: In The Flesh, In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Series, it's Rick focused so what else is it going to be lbh, this started as a lighthearted ficlet and ended up v much not that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyshotmyclown/pseuds/theyshotmyclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick drops his gaze. He feels sick, like he wants to crawl into his own head and lock the door. He thinks of his dad, lip curled in disgust. He thinks of Kieren, now, looking at him like he's never been so disappointed in anyone than he is with the boy he thought was everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Innocent, But Holy

**Author's Note:**

> This started out fairly light hearted and entertaining, and then - as is always the case - it went down the Overwhelming Angst Route. I don't know how to write anything not sad any more.  
> (the title is from _Upset Boulevard_ by Spector in case anyone wondered. If you want an ~all round angstfest~ while reading, I suggest you listen to _Fever To The Form_ by Nick Mulvey)

The school bus is packed. Rick stands near the front, anchored by one of the hanging rails, with Kieren squashed into his side. It's fine though, because everyone is squashed against everyone, and it doesn't matter that Kieren is resting his hand against the small of his back because nobody can see.

“I've been thinking about summer!” Kieren says, leaning in close to be heard over the crowd. “I thought we could do something together, before sixth form starts.” He grins, swiping a stray curl out of his eyes. “There's all sorts on. I thought about a festival but the music all looks a bit naff and the good ones are all like, three hundred quid.” Kieren falls heavy against him when the bus pulls up at their stop and Rick grins.

Eventually they're jostled off onto the pavement, all of the Roarton kids spewed out into the spring air. Kieren doesn't say anything for a moment, and then;

“There's this parade, right, down in London. And if we got a coach, train's too fucking expensive 'cause we haven't pre-booked, but if we got a coach and went down we could,” he takes a breath, smiles tentatively. “We could go. Y'know? I thought it'd be cool. We'd have to get up really early too but it'd be fun.”

Rick squints out of the corner of his eye briefly, flicks his gaze back to the pavement. His rucksack bounces against his back, hoisted over one shoulder, and his shirt sleeves are roughly rolled up to the elbows. “Yeah, I dunno Ren.”

“It goes all through the city, and it's really massive, world famous. Loads of people go. There are videos from last year all over youtube, looks great.” Kieren knocks their shoulders together, letting the momentum of his messenger bag lend the move more weight. “There are some great art suppliers down there too, much better than WH Smiths. Like, whole walls of paintbrushes and stuff, we could make a day of it, see the palace and everything. Hey, you could take me round the museum with the dinosaur. Not been there since I was tiny.”

They round the corner and Rick smirks, but says nothing.

The silence gets a bit suffocating after a couple minutes. Kieren purses his lips. “We'd only be going as mates.”

“What else would we be going as?” Rick says, quicker than intended, words clipped. He pauses to right himself. “S'bit weird though. Going to something like that.”

Kieren sniffs. “I'm not asking you to shove your tongue down my throat on national news, for fucks sake.” He scuffs his shoe off a lamppost, shoves his hands deep into his pockets; looks intently at anything but Rick. “It'd just be _us_. Being _mates_.”

“Yeah alright Ren, leave off.”

“I can go on my own.”

“And do what, mince along Downing Street with all the posh London fags?” Rick spits it out with more vitriol that he means to and Kieren flinches and Rick's chest hurts. “Shit, look, I just-”

“Say what you really think, then.” Kieren stares at him. “I'm fucking sick of this, y'know that?” He stops walking, forcing Rick to a standstill.

“Ren, c'mon. I didn't mean that. I just... I just don't think it'd be a good idea.”

“Scared your dad'll catch sight of you on the news? He might see you fucking smiling for once, if he did.” Kieren doesn't mask the sneer in his voice. Rick notices. Rick always notices, because he knows Kieren's tells and Kieren doesn't try to hide them around him. Right now he's fuming, but the only outward sign is the white-knuckled hand he's moved to grip his bag strap, long fingers trembling. “I just thought it'd be nice, that's all.”

Rick looks at the ground. “I know.”

“We wouldn't know anybody and nobody would stare and we wouldn't even have to tell anyone, we could just be going to _museums_ , but y'know what? It's fine.” Kieren swallows. “We can do something else.”

Rick looks up, but Kieren won't meet his eye and that feeling in his chest gets worse. 

 

 ***

 

It's past seven when Rick slips out of the house and heads towards the woods. It's only just starting to get dark and he yanks his hood up against the evening chill, covering the distance between his house and the cave as quickly as he can without looking too furtive. God knows what people think he does up there – he's sure at least two neighbours have seen him disappearing before – but he's not particularly bothered. Roarton's small and rumours spread no matter how hard you try to stop them.

When he gets so close to the cave that he can see the flickering light of a candle flame, he lets out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Kieren's there after all. Rick hurries, cracking twigs underfoot.

Kieren is sitting against the wall of the cave, hands knotted in his lap. He doesn't look up when Rick shuffles in alongside him. For a while they don't say anything, and Rick watches the way the candle light dances across Kieren's face. Slowly, trying to gauge a reaction, Rick reaches across and gently covers Kieren's hands with his own, slipping their fingers together.

“I'm sorry, Ren. About earlier,” Kieren doesn't say anything; he still won't meet Rick's gaze but Rick reckons that's okay, all things considered.

“You were a right nob,” Kieren murmurs.

One of the tealights flickers and dies. Rick watches it putter out, and settles against the cold stone at his back. “I know,” The silence falls heavy between them again.

There's a pull on his hand and then Kieren is against him, across him, and Rick thinks for a second that he's heading for the cave opening to bolt, but he settles across his hips instead, knees either side. He's close enough that their noses touch, close enough that Rick can see he's not smiling; Kieren slides one hand behind his neck, kissing him hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Rick's head bumps the rock behind him. There's something vicious in the kiss, something Kieren can't convey with words or even vindictive silence. His hands are driving along Rick's jaw, his chest, his neck – Rick kisses him back, pressing his apology into his mouth and hoping Kieren understands. 

It's not enough, Rick knows that. With Kieren eclipsing him like this, body hot against his own even through two layers of clothes, he knows it more than ever. This is what Kieren wants and he can't give it to him. Here, in the dark of the trees, it's different; nobody has to know, nobody has to see them together. It doesn't cut it for Ren and deep down, it doesn't cut it for Rick either, but he doesn't want to start unravelling that particular Gordian knot right now. He lets Kieren leave marks on his throat and pretends he doesn't feel the anger behind them.

Kieren pulls away, eyes burning. “Do you want me to stop?” he says, daring him to say yes. He has a hand under Rick's T-shirt now, slender fingers pressed into his ribs. “I'll stop, if that's what you want.”

Rick doesn't know what he wants, not really. He wants Kieren to know he's sorry, wants him to know that this is something he so desperately wants, but the words won't come. Instead he threads his hands into the curls Kieren's let grow long enough to brush his collar and pulls him closer.

Kieren goes rigid. Flushed, shaking, he draws back. “Only here, yeah? You only want this when we're here.”

Rick stares at him. “Ren, I-”

Kieren cuts him off with a derisive snort. “You won't stand too close to me at school in case people _assume_  things, but you're fine with copping off up here because nobody can see.” He slides his hand from under Rick's shirt. “I can't do this, I can't be a fucking secret.”

Rick swallows and drops his gaze. He feels sick, like he wants to crawl into his own head and lock the door. He thinks of his dad, lip curled in disgust. He thinks of Kieren, now, looking at him like he's never been so disappointed in anyone than he is with the boy he thought was everything. It hurts.

“I can't, Ren.” The words grate. He clears his throat, wants to say that he's scared, so fucking scared. “I can't.”

Kieren doesn't stay long after that; he yanks his cuffs down over his knuckles and ducks out into the cold. Rick watches him get far enough away that he thinks he's out of view, and then start running.

 

***

 

For as long as Rick can remember, he's been scared. Not the type of fear you get from films, or knowing a kid at school is going to kick the shit out of you, or even the fear that reared its head when he was done for shoplifting in year eight. It's fear on the slow-burn. It's the sort of chronic, tedious fear that makes you do stuff like turn the volume of the telly down when the action picks up, without even thinking about it, or tread softly after the storm of an argument has passed. When he was seven, he'd got a certificate at school for helping an injured boy from the opposite team off the football pitch and rather than hear his dad talk about how he was too soft and a people-pleaser and destined to be trampled on his whole life, he'd torn it into strips. He'd been terrified when he went home with a hickey blooming on his throat at New Year's, the feel of Kieren's mouth still burning his skin, only to have Bill laugh and slap him on the back for being an obvious lady's man.

He's scared now, as he stands on the Walker's doorstep on a Friday night and tries to gear himself up to knock. It's been a week since the instance in the cave, and Kieren has done all he can to avoid him at school. He's tried to be tough about it, the little voice in his head that sounds remarkably like his dad telling him to _buck up_ and not tolet _that little queer get to you, I told you he was a bad 'un,_ but there's no venom behind the words. He's ashamed of himself for even thinking them.

In the end he doesn't have to knock, because Jem stomps her way up the drive in a way that doesn't quite fit with her crumpled Guides uniform, and grins when she sees him. “Heya, what you doing here?”

He shuffles on the spot. “Just needed to talk to Kieren about something. Is he in?”

“He must be, if he's not with you.” She digs her keys out of a pocket and lets them both in.

Rick follows her into the hall, where she yells, “Kier, Rick's here for you!” and then slinks off towards the kitchen, dumping her bag at the bottom of the stairs. From around the kitchen door Sue waves at him and tells him to just go on up if Kieren doesn't come to collect him. Rick smiles and nods, and then – because Kieren doesn't appear, and he can't hover in the hall forever – starts for the stairs.

“Why are you here?” Kieren is peering at him over the banister. He looks wary. Rick shrugs and stares at his feet.

“Wanted to see you.”

Kieren doesn't tell him to fuck off, and when Rick next looks up he's gone, so he takes that as an invitation to carry on. He follows the sound of angry drums down the corridor. Kieren's sitting at his desk when Rick gets there, feet tucked under him and eyes fixed on whatever he's sketching. He doesn't acknowledge Rick's arrival, doesn't even turn down the CD player, so Rick drops onto the bed and looks anywhere but at Kieren. He probably should have planned this better. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No.”

“You're doing a good job of acting like it, then.”

Kieren puts his pencil down. “What d'you want me to say? I'm sorry I hurt your _feelings_ by not sitting with you at lunch all week?”

“Don't be an arse, Ren. That's not what I meant.”

“What, you want to talk about how you only acknowledge me as someone other than a mate when I'm sucking you off in the woods? Oh for fucks sake,” he says, seeing Rick glance nervously at the open bedroom door, “like they can even _hear_ us over the music.” Kieren gets up and pushes the door closed anyway. He rolls his eyes, and Rick feels his face redden.

“It's not like that, Ren.”

“Get blowjobs from all your friends, then?”

“ _No._ ” Rick knots his fingers. “It's not like that, you know what dad's like.”

Kieren glares. “Yeah. Your dad's a prick and you know it, but you keep pretending that everything that comes out of his mouth is sodding gospel.”

“I still see you, don't I?” Rick says it quietly, hardly sure the words leave his mouth at all, but Kieren seems to soften a little so they must have done. “He doesn't want me to see you at all but I do.”

Kieren doesn't say anything to that. Eventually he crosses from the door and sits next to him, knees touching. Rick watches the clock tick round another minute before Kieren speaks.

“I hate him, y'know? I hate him for making you scared.”

From the corner of his eye Rick can see that Kieren is looking at him. “Yeah, you and me both.” He tries to inject it with some sort of grim humour. He wants to say something poetic and meaningful, but he's sixteen and afraid and poetry isn't really his thing anyway. “I don't want to stop being mates.” He wants Kieren to reassure him, maybe knock their shoulders together as if nothing's happened.

“I know.” Kieren says, and doesn't move.

Rick wishes he could disappear.

 

***

 

It's Sunday and he's up in the cave, stubbing a fag out on a ledge, when Kieren appears. Rick's been sat in the same place for about an hour, give or take; he's on his fourth can of cider and his third cigarette, and he wants to snap at Kieren for just standing there and biting his lip like a nervous child. 

“Your mum came round. Said you hadn't been home for tea.”

Rick sniffs. “I bet dad's going off on one.”

“Probably.” Kieren crawls into the cave alongside him and twists a can out of its plastic ring. “It's good to see you've not topped yourself up here or anything, then; your mum was worried you'd _hit a rough patch_ with coursework.” He tucks his knees into his chest and goes quiet.

Rick takes a drink. “Nah. Not me, mate.”

They haven't really spoken over the weekend at all, so when Kieren leans against his shoulder Rick tries not to be surprised. Kieren cracks open his can. “So, what you doing up here then?”

“The lads wanted to go down the Legion but I didn't fancy it.” Rick shrugs. “Figured numbing my arse on a fucking rock would be a better night out.”

“Shame you've filled the place with fag ash though.”

“S'cuse me for not wanting to stand in the wind.”

Kieren smiles. Things fall silent between them for a while, but it's a different sort than the silence Rick's got used to over the last couple of weeks. It's not quite companionable, but it doesn't feel like drowning either.

Rick uses the lapse in conversation and the cider buoying his confidence to say, “I fucked things up, didn't I?” and then closes his eyes, dropping his head back against the wall.

“Little bit, yeah.” Kieren reaches across, hesitates, and then squeezes his hand. “But I don't really want to talk about it right now.”

Rick thinks that's rich, considering it was Kieren who brought everything into the open in the first place, but he lets him rest his head on his shoulder and doesn't say anything. He tries to imagine being somewhere he could do this, sit with Kieren's hand twined tight into his own, and not feel the need to run, or like something was squeezing his lungs tight.

Quietly, in a voice that threatens to crack, Kieren says, “I wish, sometimes, that we hadn't met yet. That we could meet somewhere else, like in a massive city when we're both settled and able to do stuff we want to do.”

Rick doesn't know what to say to that. He wants more than anything to be out of Roarton, to be as far away as possible from his father, but there's a pull that keeps him anchored to the fucking spot and snaps him back to Bill like a dog stretching too far on its lead. He wishes his dad was dead, and then he feels guilty; he wishes he didn't feel the way he did about the boy next to him, and feels guiltier still. He stops thinking.

He presses his face into Kieren's hair, and breathes deep.


End file.
